


breathe me.

by esquitor



Series: yet still the shriveling skins. [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, Fingerfucking, Gangbang, Group Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, filthy smut, many many many balrogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esquitor/pseuds/esquitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>melkor doesn't like to <i>share</i>.</p><p>but he will admit, mairon looks damn pretty sandwiched like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe me.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joannabelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/gifts), [crackinthecup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/gifts).



> jeeeeeeesus christ i
> 
> i won't even lie the first 1k is snarky foreplay and the rest is just nonstop facefucking. gangbang facefucking. i. i don't even have an excuse. i just.
> 
> bury me with this when i pass away

He isn't drunk. He isn't _drunk_. Whatever that means.

Yes, he needed a bit of a brazen push, and he let this crude drink circulate a little deeper in his flesh and belly than he would normally, let it affect him just _that much more_. Just a little. _Just a little_.

In retrospect, it might have been too much.

"Why are you telling _me_ this, Mairon? Shouldn't you be sitting up there?"

"I dunno," he slurs, leaning against Gothmog's shoulder. Or his arm, rather. Even the smallest of Balrogs is far taller than Mairon. "Thought you might have a.. good idea."

"Just ask him like you're asking me now."

"I can't- I can't just _ask_ him like that." Mairon frowns at someone's feet. "I'm his _lieutenant_. I have a rep- repu-... repu _tation_."

"You're _drunk_ ," Gothmog laughs then. "You could ask him anything and get away with it."

Mairon hisses quietly in Valarin, something along the lines of _bullshit, I'm not drunk_ , and gulps down another mouthful of the liquor. It burns its way down and pools warm in his chest, trickling outwards like fingers of a river. The remains in his mug looks like a puddle of liquid rubies.

He is definitely drunk.

"..So?"

"So, what?"

"What do you think would be the best way to ask him to—"

" _Mairon_."

Melkor's booming tones silences the room, snarls and growls dying to a whisper. And in his tipsied daze, Mairon pushes himself off of Gothmog's shoulder with a grumble, and a murmur of protest when the Balrog presses a hand to the small of his back to keep him upright.

It's a full crowd, he thinks, looking out over the faces now turned towards his way. Utumno is _finished_ , completed, ready and awaiting the arrival of Eru's beloved _Children_. All of the fortress has turned out for this celebration, every Maia and Balrog and every other dark creature that exists in its depths. And that will fit through the doors.

What an audience.

"Mairon!"

Lilting, he braces himself against Gothmog's shoulder with one hand, leaning back just slightly on the Balrog's hand.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"I did say you could mingle with your _friends_.. but you seem to be getting quite chatty down there with the Captain." And dare he detect a hint of _jealousy_ , as several other Maiar seem to? Gothmog snorts behind him. "Mind sharing with us what you have so much to talk about?"

"Nothing, master," Gothmog says in his stead, standing up. For once, Mairon is grateful. He's still trying to figure out why Melkor is sprouting another face, but the image of it passes quickly. "Reminiscing on the olden days."

"You _have_ no olden days with him, Gothmog." But Melkor only raises his brow. "Are you stealing my Lieutenant away, Captain?"

"No, my Lord."

"Nothing to steal away," Mairon says in a rolling laugh, stumbling just slightly. "I just.. wanted his advice."

"Advice?"

"On how to ask you to choke me next time we fuck--"

Too late does Gothmog's hand clap over his mouth. The room is now _deathly_ silent, not even the mountain daring to tremble. He thinks he hears a mug clatter to the ground, liquid splashing over cobblestones.

Perhaps that was _too_ brazen a push.

From his throne, Melkor looks over the floor of his court room disbelievingly. Slowly, he rises to his feet, a speck of shadow at this distance. Yet in moments of the crowd parting, Melkor glides over effortlessly, the expression on his face nigh unreadable. Gothmog's hand drifts down and eventually comes to a rest at his side again, the Balrog clearing his throat and shifting in place.

Mairon opens his mouth, closes it. Then opens it again.

"..Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes, you did." Melkor's thumb rubs over his chin, fingers tracing down the line of his throat.

Mairon feels the heat of Gothmog behind him, his master in front, and he cannot keep his face and neck from flushing.

Too brazen.

"...And?" He asks after swallowing.

" _And_ ," Melkor says lowly, "I thought you didn't enjoy things like that."

"I do." Mairon breathes in, carefully and meticulously. "..What I don't enjoy is your trying to cut through my neck."

"I won't do that again." The words are whispered, privy only to him and the Lord of Balrogs. And Gothmog seems to approve, if the soft rumbling is any indication.

"Unless I want you to," Mairon breathes out in response. "And right now I want you to hold me down by the throat and _fuck me hard_."

"Right _now_ , Mairon?" The Vala snarls, grinning. "Well, then, I don't see why not. And since you two seem so close, why don't you _join us_ , Captain Gothmog?"

"What?" Mairon frown, backing away just slightly. "I thought you didn't want to share."

"Who else is going to stuff your mouth and keep you quiet?"

Melkor's growl leaves him whimpering, and he feels Gothmog's reaction throbbing against his lower back. But he can't help laughing, either, if only quietly and incredulously.

"Even _he_ can't keep me quiet for that long."

"Then let's invite everyone else. I'm sure you'd like _that_ , Mairon. An endless line of cocks to fill your mouth with."

All at once Mairon feels desire warring with practicality inside him, logic and debauchery pitting against one another. He is their lieutenant. He cannot participate in such... such _vulgar_ activities, not with those he's meant to be respected by.

And yet he is also their _lieutenant_. He is. Melkor's second-in-command. Only Melkor can change that.

"Did you hear that, my loyal servants?" Melkor crows, and returns to his throne with a flourish, leaving Mairon to meet their wide-eyed gazes. "To thank you all for your hard, _hard_ work, Lieutenant Mairon is _inviting_ you to join him for some private.. _entertainment_. He'd like those willing to help keep him _quiet_ , so that he will not disturb the rest of your celebrations."

Gothmog nudges at his back, chuckling lowly. As if to say _well, look what you've gotten yourself into_.

Mairon snorts and saunters over, heels clacking over stone. He wobbles just a bit, but the wine is quickly wearing off. By the time he's only steps away, his head is clear again and his tongue is sharp.

"That would hardly be a challenge," he says just loudly enough to be heard, brushing by his master on his way towards the adjoining private banquet hall. "You've never managed to make me get _that_ loud."

"Be careful what you wish for, little one," Melkor calls out to his back. And to Gothmog (or so Mairon assumes, correctly), he says, "Prepare him for me. I will join you two... _shortly_."

 

* * *

 

The Balrog follows him through the doors. Just before they shut, Melkor's booming _well, go on then_ is followed by the scraping of a multitude of chairs. The heavy clang of iron echoes in his bones, darkness never quite falling for the flames coming from Gothmog's own body. Mairon lights the braziers not long after with a gesture.

"Looks like we'll have to move some of these tables out of the way," the Balrog rumbles, circling around one of the more ornate ones at the other end of the room, adorned with a gilded cloth, where the guest of honor usually sat. "Set you up on this one here. He'll like that."

"Of course he will," Maiorn mutters, starting to shuck off the decorative pieces of his armor to set them on another table.

"He will. Best place to show you off for a crowd, too."

"And I suppose you know exactly how he wants me _shown off_?" Mairon watches the giant move with ease, despite his bulk and mass. His usual form is far less... massive and intimidating. This one is for appearances.

"Stretched, slicked, begging." Gothmog shrugs. "Something like that."

He rolls his eyes and removes the rest of his clothing, resisting the urge to kick his boots at the Balrog.

"I bet you'd _love_ to spread me open for a crowd."

Once bare, Mairon climbs onto the covered table, Gothmog watching his every movement. Large hands turn him around to face the door just as it opens, and a handful of Maiar and Balrogs trickle into the room. Gothmog's breath his hot against the shell of his ear.

"And I bet _you_ would love to be spread open _for_ a crowd, Mairon. Why else would you be here if you didn't?"

"Oh how I _rue_ the day I said you could stick your fingers in me," Mairon snarls under his breath. And yet he does not turn away when Gothmog presses those very fingers to his lips, as he has before. And Mairon lets them in, like before.

He doesn't waste time with frivolities or play. Instead he works up enough saliva and slick to coat the Balrog's fingers, swallowing the rest before it spills from his mouth. And like always, Gothmog wastes no time working the fingers between his legs. Just in time for company.

Mairon has never been in a position like this before, though.

Soon Gothmog finds a comfortable angle to keep his arm at, to hold one of Mairon's legs open, to cradle Mairon's head in the crook of his elbow. Mairon tries to keep his eyes focused on the flexing of his fingers, the brush of Gothmog's palm over the skin of his nethers... rather than the crowd of faces in front of them, all watching the same thing.

"Some time this _century_ , Gothmog," Mairon hisses, fingers curling over the Balrog's arm. His stomach flutters with every widening stretch, groaning ever so slightly.

"I can't stretch you properly _and_ quickly," Gothmog grunts, slipping in another finger and scissoring them even further apart until Mairon _whimpers_. "Pick one or the other."

"We're not trying to fit an _army_ in it, rocks-for-brains, just hurry up— _oh—_ "

Nails digging into Gothmog's forearm, Mairon arches in a silent, gasping moan, his other leg trying to snap shut out of reflex. Shivers crawl up his spine and a dull humming _ache_ grows in the spot just behind the base of his cock, throbbing in his balls.

"—old him open, will you?" The Balrog's arm moves away and Mairon's back thumps down onto the table, head hanging off the edge of it. He mutters a word of protest, too many hands curling under his knees and pulling his legs apart. "Need to.. shut up him before he gets too loud."

" _Fuck you_ , Gothmog," he utters quietly at the sight of Gothmog trying to blindly find his own cock underneath layers of clothing. A round of _ooh_ and jeering makes him feel only marginally better. "I hope you lose your fingers in there."

"If I _did_ —" and Gothmog punctuates the emphasis with a jab that leaves Mairon sprawling and whining through his teeth, "—luckily we have a number of _volunteers_ to help me _find_ them. Come on, the Master wants him ready _yesterday_."

It's getting more difficult to follow the conversation. Gothmog is talking to his Balrogs now, directing them, maybe. Something about hairs. A number of fingers tickle the inside of his thighs, easing them even further open, rubbing over his groin. A few are even wedging in between and around the ones already inside him.

The only reason he's letting it happen is because he knows that _Gothmog_ knows when enough is enough.

"..ur mouth. Mairon."

"Will it even fit?"

"Done it a enough times to know it does."

He sees but does not register, the head of Gothmog's cock pressed against the plush of his lip. It slides wetly onto his chin instead, pre-come dribbling onto the underside of his chin and down his cheek. Or up his cheek. He really can't tell.

"Open your _mouth_."

He does, and Mairon tastes Gothmog before the flesh even enters bulging down his throat. Almost immediately the clamor of noises (his own, he realizes) dulls to a stifled murmur. With silence comes a sharp increase in his senses, brightness swirling in the stale air.

With it also comes a sharp increase in the movements of whomever is trying to shove their hand up his ass.

" _Gothmog_ ," Mairon gasps, pushing on the Balrog's hips until his throat and mouth are clear. "That better not be your _wrist_ I'm f- _feeling_ —!"

The stretch widens even further and he _moans_ , indolent and luxurious.

"No arm, Mairon. Just an army."

"Oh, Eru, I hate you," he whimpers, his whole body arching as _something_ reaches even deeper inside, and he wishes his eyes could burn holes into Gothmog's balls right now. "I _hate_ \- wait- let- let _go_ —"

All too soon the cock is in his throat again and the insistent prodding returns— and he cannot move. His arms and legs are pinned down to the table, every part of him jerking and writhing helplessly in the flames that lick up his spine, fuzzing his mind, pooling hot and desperate in his belly.

And he is choking— not for air, but for sound, trying to moan, to whine, to _speak_ , but his throat convulses around Gothmog's cock instead of syllables and words. He's flushing, lines of molten skin sizzling along his shoulders, down his chest, and there is a hand tracing them so delicately that he manages one gurgling _whimper_ just before he comes—

"— _Fuck_!" The curses sputters out the moment Gothmog's cock is out of his mouth again. "Why did you— _Gothmog_!"

He's moaning, snarling, shaking hard and gasping for breath all at once, wracked with an orgasm that never comes ( _hah_ ). All those fingers have left him wide and empty and _on edge_ , so close he can almost taste it. He's still pinned down and with someone's hand wrapped around his neck, he can't even get up to curse them to their faces.

The heat is fading fast, the high is falling, so he whines again, blood rushing to his head as he _begs_ , "please, Gothmog, I need to- _come_ —!"

" _I_ am the only one you need beg release from, lieutenant."

Mairon feels a chill wash over him, cold, cold anticipation. The hand at his neck ( _Melkor's hand_ ) loosens and slides down his chest, trails a line to his cock, fingers wrapping around and pinching the base of it. Yet he doesn't raise his head, and his erection doesn't flag even the slightest.

"Melkor... I— please, I need-!"

The Vala's fingers slip inside, an all too familiar fullness tickling and curling inside him. He knows this feeling, this floating, drifting, riding the rising waves. _Crashing_ , until every muscle in his body is straining to climax.

But not breaking.

"Get up."

Once more denied, he groans plaintively, relief sobbing into his limbs now able to move again. Gothmog is gone from his vision, leaving him staring only at the far stone wall, but all that teasing and stimulation makes even the _slightest_ movement.. difficult.

"Get _up_ , Mairon." Melkor moves into his sight and looks down at him now, wide-eyed and glittering. _Smiling_. A figure of black lined with fire. "Put on your best face for your _audience_."

Which means _everyone else_ is—

He hurries to sit up, still flushed under the weight of too many eyes, the lingering sensation of clawed, scaled hands on his skin. Pulling him open.

"Looks like they've prepared you well... It's too bad none of them wanted to play with your piercings," Melkor murmurs, hands coming around to pluck at the bars going through his nipples. "And after all the trouble we went through to find one that you liked."

" _You_ had those put in, Mairon?" Gothmog looms over him, grinning and cocky from head to.. his other head. "And here we thought the master did and wouldn't want us touching them.."

"Oh, he _loves_ having them touched. Don't you, Mairon?" Chuckling, Melkor drops his hands to Mairon's waist and tugs him backwards. "On your knees, now. Face your men like a proper lieutenant."

He lets Melkor move him into position without breaking eye-contact with Gothmog, if only because he's less likely to falter then, than if he were looking at anyone else. Melkor spreads his thighs, lowering his hips until the tip of his cock just barely brushes over the cloth covering. Just the right level for his master to push in.

All the self-discipline and preparation in the world couldn't ease the width and weight of Melkor driving in on the best of days. Mairon rocks further over the edge, arching, mouth agape in a silent, pained, gasping whimper.

"O-oh _fuck_..."

" _That's_ what I like to hear," Melkor husks behind him. "You love it more and more each time."

He wants to spit back that it's only because he's so _sensitive_ , ready to spill at any moment. But all that comes out is another slipped _moan_ muffled into the tablecloth.

"Lovely sounds, aren't they?" Gothmog's distinctively rough hand palms at his chin, lifting Mairon's head until his breaths dampen the thick-skinned base of the cock before him. "May we, my Lord?"

Melkor shoves in deeper and groans, curling Mairon's toes and throwing another pitched moan onto Gothmog's heavy sac. The smell of his musk is cloying, salty fluid smearing over the side of his face.

" _Fuck my mouth_ , Gothmog," he rasps, peering up with lidded eyes, and hoping that he doesn't look as desperate and wanton as he feels. Out of the corner of his eyes he catches a hint of movement, one horned Balrog after another slinking closer for a better view. " _All_ of you. I want to come _choking_ on your cocks."

He realizes this isn't the most becoming of positions. Splayed on his knees and elbows over a banquet table, his face buried in Gothmog's crotch, Melkor's cock wedged hilt-deep up his ass. Strands of hair plastered across his brow, stuck to the pre-come on his cheek and chin, mussed and strewn across his back. He's in no state to be giving orders.

"You heard him," Melkor snarls, rocking in a series of shallow push-and-pulls. A sharp, heavy _smack_ to Mairon's rear has his head hanging again, crying out in a gasp of shock and clenching down on his master's girth. "Have at it."

Mairon's vision from there is a blur. Gothmog's hands grasp at his chin, putting him at just the right angle. Another grabs onto his horn to hold him in place; he opens his mouth _wide_ with a whimpering groan, and Gothmog shoves right in, _all_ the way in, rutting his throat with all the force of a blundering beast, just as Melkor begins to pound in earnest.

At any other time his master _would_ have him loud and reckless. But this time it is silent, this time it is wordless, _noiseless_ , because any sound he would make dies a tremulous death against the head of Gothmog's cock every time the Balrog thrusts back in, tip to base.

And yet, any sound he _would_ have made is conveyed through those inside him. Gothmog's indulgent, hearth-bellowing groans; Melkor's occasional quiet grunts, like one having a tryst; the sharp slap of skin against his rear, against the underside of his chin; the dull, muted rasp of a thumb rubbing circles over the base of his horns.

Gothmog crushes Mairon's nose to his pelvis, hands grasping at his horn and the back of his head. Someone plucks at the hardened nub of his nipple, pinching and _twisting_ , and his throat spasms into existence, _constricting_. His vision goes white and hazy, blurred and sharp at the edges, colors he never knew about spiking into existence.

" _Fuck_." The sound that vibrates through his skull puts the rumbling of the earth to shame— and if Mairon could whimper, he would. "He's never come that _hard_ before—"

The rest of what Gothmog says is lost in the sounds of a river gushing down his throat, every pulse of flesh throbbing against his walls at both ends.

Next thing he knows his head is hanging over the table again, coughing flecks of white onto the ground, still gasping for breath. Melkor hasn't come yet but is holding his hips flushed to Mairon's, and all Mairon can think about is the _fullness_ that comes with it, the line of fire concentrated at the tip of his own cock.

When he opens his eyes again, his face is being held against another cock, a pair of hands cradling his head almost gently. Everything tastes like copper and mercury, and everything looks about the same, too.

"...May I?"

Mairon doesn't even hesitate to say " _yes, please_ ".

 

* * *

 

He's never gone more than two rounds before. And after that, keeping count is nigh impossible.

Each successive one pushes him closer and closer to another orgasm, until he's twisting and squirming again, hands and toes curling with the strain of it, and _keeping count_ is the furthest thing from his mind.

When he does come again there is that burst of colors once more, pupils blown wide and black and unseeing, moaning pitched and _loud_ around the cock in his mouth that isn't quite large enough to silence him completely.

The sound he makes comes out gurgling, breathless, _warbling_ and halting with each gush of seed that sears down his throat. Not quite choking, not quite gagging.

But he still has mind enough to suck clean the flesh between this lips, letting the taste of burnt sea moss linger on his tongue. The Maia retreats from his mouth, and Mairon relishes the nails scratching lightly at his scalp, like a reward for an obedient pet. He tries not to cough it up this time.

"-- _You_."

Melkor's tone is breathless, gasping, husked, _grating_ over the bundle of nerves inside him. Mairon pushes back, takes his master deeper, forehead dragging along the seed-stained tablecloth, rumpling it under his nose. A shadow falls over him, unheeded.

" _Gag him._ "

He's lifted by the horns again, mouth angled-- and eyes wide, because he recognizes this Balrog as Gothmog's second. Every bit as impressive as the Captain himself, even at a half-hardness.

"With pleasure, my Lords."

The length of it is slightly bent, for reasons Mairon doesn't know. Yet it slides in easily, fitting better than Gothmog's ever did (too wide, too blunt, too _bulbous_ ), and the taste reminds him of rolling in a forest fire, snapping up smouldering wood chips with bare teeth.

One hand grips tight around the prong of his horn, and the other curls under his throat, tickling the bulge of cartilage. Gripping. The organ slides in a little deeper with a rolling, beating rhythm, and he hears a _groan_ breezing over his head, a sound of bliss and worship.

Then Melkor starts to fuck into him. _Hard_.

Rough, _brutal_ , holding Mairon in place by his hips and plunging into him relentlessly, _repeatedly_.

It lasts for only a fraction of a minute, yet feels like years. The burn of the tablecloth scraping along his knees and elbows, sweat dripping down the dips and valleys of his back, the muscles of his neck straining and rippling and _wailing_ — _silent_ \--

Mairon comes again too quickly, too soon, burnt and exhausted, gulping down as much air as cock, struggling with the effort just to stay upright. And Melkor, _Melkor_ —

Melkor beats against his rear once, twice, three more times, and then stills with a sound that deserves to be gagged far more than Mairon ever does or did. A sound that rolls _deep_ in his belly, guttural, possessive and _powerful_ ; a sound that leaves him _yearning_ to hear it again, smothered into his back, Melkor's hands and teeth claiming every part of him, instead of bellowed into the air above and behind him.

The cock in his mouth twitches madly without spilling and begins to pull out. But Mairon whispers out a whine and throws an arm out to wrap around the Balrog's waist, sliding his lips all the way down to the smooth-scaled base. His tongue laves over it blindly and he hears a grunt, a groan of surprise, whistling and cheering, a slap on the back--

But all Mairon can really think about is how deeply Melkor is bucking into him, how hard that shoves him against the cock in his mouth, how the essence of burnt leaves and charred soil spends deep into his gullet. And he swallows it. Sucks the remains down _ravenously_ , leaving only a string of saliva on the cock when it leaves his mouth.

His vision returns shortly after, while he's staring at the ground in front of him. Shifting feet, flickering torchlight. Melkor's hand is heavy on his back, and he pushes back against it, his own arms trailing over the edge of the table as one imploring and in worship, kneeling before his king. Makes the high last as long as he can.

Melkor pulls out and rolls him over while he's still drifting, heart beating too quickly, gasping for the luxury of air. Limp and loose and easily spread wide for the Vala's own viewing pleasure.

"—came quicker than any of us," comes a snort from somewhere above his head. His eyes peel open again, and sees Gothmog elbowing his second with a grin, upside-down.

"He has a nice mouth," is the gruff response.

"Well _thanks_ for that," Mairon rasps, swallowing and rubbing his throat. It's going to be sore later, he bets. Especially if there's anyone left who thought it necessary to make their cocks as big as reasonably possible.

"Awake already, Mairon?" Melkor sounds as tired as he is, chest heaving, still wrapped in black. Robes or armor, Mairon can't really tell right now. "I was hoping to have you insensate for a while longer."

It's the lopsided grin that stirs a heat in Mairon's belly, far from quenched.

"..You can't even make me _scream_ ," he bites back cheekily, propping up on his elbows. But he makes a show of wincing, rolling his neck, arching the strain and tension from his limbs. "You'll have to do more than _that_ to fuck me unconscious, _master_."

Maybe it's the receding adrenaline, maybe his mind is still more addled than he thinks it is. Maybe he's too busy thinking about what it would be like if Melkor were to fuck him that much, that hard.

He doesn't notice the Vala reaching for his throat until his back is against the table again. And once more, he's treated to the image of Gothmog and his Balrogs coming closer, his own spit glistening on several of their cocks. Gothmog ushers several others from the back towards the front. Those who haven't had their turn yet, most likely.

"I did say to be careful what you wished for, _little one_." Melkor's thumb rubs over the hollow of his neck, pressing down lightly. "Breathe well now. You're not too full _this_ time, are you? There's still quite a few who haven't used your mouth yet."

The hand tightens until Mairon's breath comes out in a thin and shallow whine, and he meets Gothmog's eyes. The Balrog nudges the closest one over, who wastes no time in pulling himself out of his robes and shoving into Mairon's open mouth.

" _Good_ ," Melkor hisses gently, pressing the head of his cock inside once more. "Now, let's see if I can't make you _scream_.."

Mairon moans quietly, arching under combined pressure within and without, fingers wrapping around the Vala's wrist and tracing the lines of muscles under his sleeve almost reverently. He wants to touch, _needs_ to, after bearing down on his knees and elbows for so long. Needs to feel something else besides hard, hard wood.

"Hold him _down_."

" _No_ \--"

His garbled objection is lost in the stifled shout he lets out when Melkor sinks in deep, shuddering past the patch of nerves so often disregarded. This is impossible, this is _unacceptable_ , this is-

Mairon coughs wetly through a keening sound in his throat, unable to swallow so suddenly. He turns his head to the side to clear his airways, and to keep the mix of spittle and come from going into his eyes. Through the series of flashing lights, he sees that same Balrog crowded by his peers, claps on his shoulder. Perhaps being reassured that, no, he did not come too soon, or that it was okay if he did. And if Mairon weren't currently trying to get his arms and legs free like his life depended on it (it doesn't), he would be doing the same thing.

As it is, another Maia has taken that Balrog's place, sliding into his whimpering mouth and rendering him mostly silent.

 _Mostly_.

 

* * *

 

He remembers screaming at _some_ point, maybe. Or trying to, would have, if Melkor did not have a hand around his neck, and if someone weren't coming into his mouth right at that moment. Trying to swallow a scream is harder than one would imagine.

Melkor sounds _extremely_ glad to hear it, though, pressing in deep and staying there until Mairon quiets down to a whimpering, wheezing moan, gaping silently for breath. He's already hard again, leaking inexorably onto his stomach.

And, Eru, his _stomach_ \--

It takes all of his strength to turn away from the next cock that presents itself, whispering something incoherent under his breath. The Maia is insistent though, trying to hold his head still and push in regardless.

Up until Mairon bites down halfway through, anyway.

A yelp accompanies the sudden release of his airway and limbs, the astonished laughter and noises of several Balrogs and Gothmog's booming commentary. Melkor's hand curls under his neck and helps him lift his head, easing the strain on his throat.

There have been many occasions where Melkor looks satisfied. When the sex is good and he feels like he has sufficiently pushed Mairon over the edge, when he has managed to bring Mairon to new _heights_ , to new joys, a new position. When they make a magnificent kill while running in the woods, teeth as white and sharp as knives. (When he finds a new not-so-secret place to fuck.)

But none of it compares to when Melkor looks _proud_. It's a slight change in his expression, a small curve, the loss of a wrinkle in his brow. Some glint in his eyes. It is delicate and hidden, it is secretive, and it is Mairon's to savor.

"Mairon." He tips his head back just so, just enough to look up at the Captain again. "Are you alright?"

"Mm," he responds blithely, content. But also grimacing just the slightest bit. "..If anyone sticks their cock in my mouth again, I'm going show them just how much I've swallowed already."

Gothmog grins, toothy and brimming with fire.

"Could've just said you're too full up for more." Cackling, Gothmog gives him a light pat on the shoulder and shifts his robes just enough to make himself presentable. He turns and starts ushering the party out, despite their groans and complaints about not having had a turn yet.

Mairon can't help but laugh.

Both of Melkor's hands are helping him sit up by the time they empty out of the room. When the door shuts with an empty echo, Melkor drops a hand down to Mairon's waist and slides them both back into the wide chair behind him. It takes several tries to position himself in Melkor's lap properly, like his arms and legs won't do what he wants them to do.

Only when he's finally seated fully over the Vala's thighs does he realizes the gravity of the moment.

"..I don't think I like sharing you, Mairon."

He snorts, swaying slightly. "Bit late to say that, isn't it? I _reek_ of seed."

Melkor's chest shakes with a quiet laughter, and in spite of it all he leans in and kisses Mairon, even when he can still taste the salty fluid on his tongue ( _a hint fresh morning dew, steaming above a bed of lava_ ).

"You are completely _filthy_ ," his master murmurs, thumbing over the thin film of come on swell of his cheeks, pressing that same slicked digit to Mairon's lips. "..And utterly _beautiful_."

" _Liar_ ," Mairon moans around the thumb, arching into the slow, rolling beats of Melkor's hips. He hasn't much strength left to move himself.

"And so completely _mine_."

To that Mairon cannot argue, as Melkor drags his head back by his hair (sweat-damped and dried stiff in places), curving his back just right, until the stroke of his master's cock rubs against that spot of his internal walls again.

"Damn troublesome thing," Melkor growls, holding Mairon still by the waist with his other hand.

A laugh breathes out of Mairon, carelessly aimed for the ceiling. "You just fucking suck at it."

"Oh, _do I_?"

"What is this, the tenth time you've tried?"

"Maybe I should ask _Gothmog_ again."

"Like he would know anything _about_ it. He's never had his cock up there before."

His vision is righted again, blinking dizzily from the sudden movement and steadying himself with a hand on the arm rest.

"You _counted_."

It takes him a moment to wrap those words around and make sense of them. The memory it evokes when he remembers is.. well. _Striking_ , to say the least.

"..I did."

"You counted a _lot_."

"I-" Mairon's breath hitches in the utter stillness of their joined hips, the steady pulse of Melkor's cock inside him. In a few minutes he would be his usual formal self again, if left well alone. And maybe then he will regret his words. "..I like it when you strike my ass."

Melkor breathes in sharply, tightening his grip until Mairon moans under the fingers bruising into him. Marks that will only stay as long as he wants them to; a simple laceration of blood vessels, discoloration of skin tissue. Embedded into bones reinforced with every known mineral.

Even permanence is fleeting, when compared to an eternity.

"..You're taking too long," Mairon says into the quiet space between them. A gully ever cracking and widening, and closing, over and over again.

"Haven't you come enough already?" Melkor grunts, rocking up heavily.

"Have _you_?"

Licking his lips, Mairon angles himself until the head of Melkor's cock lines up just _right_ and bears down on it with a breathy moan. Brings himself off with a few quick jerks of his hand.

He supposes the only reason Melkor isn't protesting is because Mairon makes a pretty picture, trembling and twitching in Melkor's lap, the orgasm twisting his gut around the Vala's length. He knows because Melkor touches him. Because a thumb strokes the edges of his open, silent mouth, touches the light imprint of a hand around his throat. Because Melkor's fingers pluck at his hard, swollen nipples until he practically _vibrates_.

Because a hand passes over his too-full belly, presses down, until he takes a gasping breath and his heart skips a beat.

Mairon almost prefers the brutal marking and scratching to this.

He eases himself up and out of Melkor's lap, wavering just for a moment to make sure everything will stay inside him for a while longer.

Melkor's fingers twitch lower over the ridge of his hipbone. Tickles.

"..I bet you're just _dying_ to stretch my ass open and watch it all leak out.." Mairon purrs, faint and raspy.

Groaning, Melkor grabs him by the chin for a kiss that's little more than nipping teeth. "You keep talking like that and I _will_."

" _Mm_." Snarling softly, Mairon pulls away and drops down as quickly as he can between Melkor's legs, shoving them further open with little protest. "It'd look better after you let them all fuck me."

Any rebuttal Melkor might have had, and thought to deny his _permission_ for his servants to despoil and have their way with their lieutenant, is lost in the low, growling, _grating_ groan that scrabbles out of the shadows when Mairon's mouth descends onto his cock, reddened and turgid and _swollen_. The first time he's looked at it all of today.

It's routine now, how this goes. Mairon splays his hands over Melkor's sides, reverent in their exploration and veneration. His adoration. And Melkor stands.

And grabs onto both of Mairon's horns and

 _f u c k s_  

into his mouth until the Vala comes in a raging swirl of fire and ashes, grasping tightly and trying to pull him even closer, shove in even _deeper_.

Until Mairon's throat can do little more than twitch around its ruthless invasion. Until his hands cling limply to the back of Melkor's robes, fingers numb and shaking.

Fucks him into a _daze_ , until swallowing is almost second nature, and he only barely recognizes the look of utter _ecstasy_ on Melkor's face.

Until he knows, just as Melkor knows, that his master is permanently etched into his very being. Always has been.

That he will never kneel before a creature other than this one, so doomed and fated and ruined is he. They.

 

* * *

 

He cleans up quietly, slowly. Leisurely drinking down every last drop, tonguing the slit and quite literally sucking the taste of Melkor out of his cock. The Vala's breathing dwindles to a pattern of harsh panting, heaving exhales, and Mairon gives the head of Melkor's flaccid flesh one last suck before it peels back into its hood, and then tucks it back into Melkor's robes.

"..You should return to the banquet," Mairon says quietly, wiping the streaked remains from his face and mouth.

He debates licking himself clean, but in the end settles for wiping it off on the rumpled tablecloth, dark red now stark with white.

"And you?"

"I.. am going to take a bath." A pause, as he sniffs the air around him. "...A long one. A very, very long bath."

Mairon dresses in choice pieces of his evening wear. Trousers, undershirt. Outer robe slung over one shoulder, to avoid the most of the mess drying on his chest. Melkor follows close behind, leaving the mess in the private hall for.. someone to clean it up.

Someone, maybe, who whistles as Mairon strides past, long and loud. If he is a bit slow in rounding on them, no one says a thing of it.

"I can and _will_ puke your come into that mug," he snipes at the Balrog, well aware that he's covered in evidence of just _how much_ , "and I can and _will_ make you eat it."

The Maia goes ashen and swallows, in a way that Mairon thinks isn't entirely out of fear and revulsion. But he promises nothing and sweeps out of the throne room, as well one can with a belly full of seed.

Melkor sinks back into his throne, sated and content, and the reveling continues as though it was never interrupted.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 of 2 because there will be a teensy smutless follow-up with melkor and mairon but i can't brain it all right now. also i think gothmog ended up being like that guy you use as a spotter when weight lifting. i dunno. it's interesting.


End file.
